On the Shores of the Mediterranean. Eric Newby
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behind Venice, entered the Adriatic south of Chioggia; the Sile, a very pretty little river which, nevertheless, was doing enormous damage to the Lagoon by pouring silt into it north of the city, was directed into a canal which carried it into what until then had been the bed of the Piave and into the sea near Jesolo; while the Piave itself was turned into the bed of the next river to the north of it, the Livenza.
Later that afternoon we descended from the No. 11 bus on the Litorale di Lido and groped our way through the fog to a dark, deserted waterfront behind the Casino, which faced the Lagoon. It is difficult to write feelingly about something you can’t see, and the fog that shrouded the Lagoon was impenetrable. In fact we could hear more than we could see of it: the melancholy crying of gulls, the tolling of a bell mounted on a buoy moored out in one of the channels, the noise of boat engines and, occasionally, angry cries as helmsmen, set on collision courses, recorded near misses. Altogether, with the whole of the Mediterranean to choose from, it was a hell of a place to end up in on such a day. We might just as well have been on the Mersey, for all the genius loci I was able to sop up, and this made me think of home, a hot bath and a couple of slugs of Glenmorangie.
‘You’re in trouble, author,’ said Wanda, my companion in life’s race, near the mark as always, sensing that I felt like emigrating back to Britain, ‘if you can’t see what you’re looking at.’
As she said this, as if to show that she wasn’t always right, the fog lifted, not everywhere, not over Venice itself which remained cocooned in it, but here and there, and for a few moments that didn’t even add up to minutes we found ourselves looking down long corridors of vapour illuminated by an eerie yellow light that must have been the last of the setting sun, down which one had distant prospects of mud banks uncovered by the tide, with labyrinths of channels running through them, and one or two of the almost innumerable islands of the Lagoon which supported until quite recently – and some still support – monasteries, nunneries, forts, miniature versions of Venice, a cemetery, and the lonely enclosure to which, once every ten years when it begins to fill up, bones are taken; fishing settlements, lodges used by the wildfowlers who in winter wait in barrels sunk in the Lagoon for the dawn and dusk flights, quarantine stations, lighthouses, hospitals, lunatic asylums, prisons, barracks, magazines that, when they were full of gunpowder, had a tendency to go up in the air, taking their custodians with them, deserted factories, old people’s homes, private houses, market gardens, vineyards, and some that were just open expanses that a farmer might visit once or twice a year to cut the hay. The channels among them were marked by long lines of bricole, wooden piles either driven into the bottom with their heads pressed together, as if they were lovers meeting in a lagoon, or else in clusters of three or four, also with their heads pressed together as if they were conspirators discussing some dark secret. Some of the more important channels had lights on the bricole. Some that were only navigable by the smallest sorts of craft, such as gondolas and boats called sandali, were indicated by lines of saplings.
There was another, equally momentary vista of part of one of the industrial zones that had been created by filling in vast areas of the northern part of the Lagoon and its mud flats, a huge, nightmare, end-of-the-world place without houses or permanent inhabitants, made up of oil refineries, chemical, fertilizer, plastic, steel, light alloy, coke, gas and innumerable other plants all belching dense smoke and residual gases into the sky and effluents into the Lagoon, so various and awful that collectively they made up a brew that even to a layman sounded as if it had been devised by a crew of mad scientists intent on destroying the human race, which in effect is what they are doing. Then the fog closed in again, more impenetrable than ever now that the sun was almost gone.
According to the tide table I had bought that morning in Chioggia it was now just after low water at Porto di Lido, what had been the principal entrance to the Lagoon and to Venice when it was commonplace to see 60,000-ton tankers wandering about in St Mark’s Basin. This was until they dredged the deep-water channel from Porto Malamocco to Marghera, using the material brought up from the bottom as infilling for the Third Industrial Zone. About now the flood would be beginning to run through Porto di Lido, Porto di Malamocco, and also through Porto di Chioggia, the three entrances that the Magistrates of the Waters had left open centuries ago, having sealed off the others after years of trial and error, by doing so preserving a delicate balance which allowed Venice to function both as a city and a great seaport. Now, for six hours, the tide would flow into the Lagoon, which is not what it appears to be – a single simple expanse of water – but is made up of three distinct basins, each separated one from the other by watersheds known as the spartiacque, spreading through its main arteries and myriad veins, channels so small that no chart shows them, and scouring and filling the canals of the city itself. Then, at the end of the sixth hour, when it was at the full, the tide would begin to run out, loaded with the effluent of the industrial zones, which sometimes includes dangerous quantities of ammonia and its by-products of oxidation, phenol, cyanide, sulphur, chlorine, naphtha, as well as oil from passing ships and boats, all the liquid sewage of Venice, the peculiarly filthy filth of a city entirely without drains, a large part of the solid ordure produced by its inhabitants, and at least a part of that produced by Mestre and Marghera, together with vast quantities of insoluble domestic detergent. One of the more awful sights in the Lagoon used to be a mud bank at Marghera with mountains of ordure rising from it, preserved, presumably for all eternity, or until they burst, in plastic bags. There they waited for an exceptionally high water, an acqua alta, to distribute them over other distant parts of the Lagoon, with thousands of gulls, apparently unable to penetrate them with their beaks, hanging frustratedly over them. All because a large incineration plant, built in the Second Industrial Zone, failed to work.
Twenty years ago the only fish of any size that was indigenous to the Lagoon and which reproduced itself in it was something called the Gò (Gobius ophocephalus), which nested in the mud on the edge of the deep canals. All the others were caught in the open sea and penned in the valli at the northern and south-western ends of the Lagoon. Mussels were also cultivated. Whether it is safe to eat any of these fish today must be questionable. There is no need any more for the Commune to display the warning against swimming on the door of the crumbling open-air swimming place on the Zattere, the long waterfront in Venice facing the Giudecca Canal. It is only too obvious.
The Adriatic performs this operation of filling and emptying the Lagoon four times every twenty-four hours over an area that used to be roughly thirty-five miles long and up to eight miles wide, but is now much less because of infilling and the construction of new valli. That is except during periods of what Venetians call la Colma or l’acqua alta, high water.
Even though the moon was nearly full there would be no acqua alta on this particular night. Acqua alta is not dependent on the tide itself being exceptionally high, or even high. It occurs when the barometric pressure falls sufficiently low to allow the level of the Adriatic to rise on what is a very low coastline, and when the strong, warm, south-westerly sirocco blows up it. If the barometric pressure is low enough and the sirocco is strong enough at the time when the ebb is beginning in the Lagoon, the water is penned inside it, unable to get out, and when the next tide begins to press in through the three entrances, the Porti, and is added to the high water already there, the natural divisions between the three basins of the Lagoon, the spartiacque, cease to exist and Venice and many other islands, inhabited and uninhabited, are flooded. Other factors can make the acqua alta even higher – heavy rain, a full moon, something called the seiche, the turning of the Adriatic on an imaginary pivot – but the sirocco and a low barometer are the two indispensable conditions.
This is not a new phenomenon. The records of the acqua alta from the thirteenth century onwards are full of entries such as ‘the water rose to the height of a man in the streets’ (on 23 September 1240); ‘the water rose from eight o’clock until midday. Many were drowned inside their houses or died of cold’ (in December 1280); ‘roaring horribly the sea rose up towards the sky, causing a terrible fear … and with such force that it broke the Lido in several places’ (in December 1600).
In 1825, the murazzi, neglected since the fall of the Republic in 1797, were breached during an enormous storm, but were made good again. On a day in 1967, the first year in which accurate measurements